


Bad Company

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-25
Updated: 2008-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Dean, saints, hoodlums, destitution, "it's harder than it looks"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Company

Dad’s hurt, Sam’s scared, and now really isn’t the best time for someone to be knocking on the door. 

Sam looks up from Dad’s side, but he still minds the rules, he doesn’t let the pressure slip from the ragged gash in Dad’s upper thigh – way too close to the artery for Dean’s comfort. Sam’s face is paler than Dad’s, but the tears wavering in the corners of his eyes are overshadowed by sudden, animalistic panic.

Dean shakes his head, only a fraction of an inch, but Sam locks onto his gaze like a homing missile. He nods back. _That’s my boy_. 

“Mr. Winchester?” 

Dean’s face sets into hard lines at the official sound of the man’s voice. _He’s not here right now, take a message_ , _jerkoff_. 

He’s all alone on this one. Dad’s down for the count, and one look at his blood-soaked little brother would bring down the heat for sure. He shoots Sam another look, and this time when Sam nods, some of the terror has been replaced by fierce determination. He watches as Sam shifts closer to Dad, turns his back to the door. 

Sam trusts him to handle it. So, he’ll just have to handle it. 

“Mr. Winchester!” The knocking is coming more and more rapidly as Dean shuts the bedroom door, concealing his family from sight. He’s really not liking this guy’s tone. 

He tucks his .45 into the waistband of his jeans. He doesn’t have to check and see if it’s loaded. 

It’s always loaded. 

“Mr. –“

Dean swings the door open quickly, stepping into the frame and bracing his boot behind it before the man can push his way inside. “Something I can help you with, Mr. …?” Dean keeps his voice light and casual, but he doesn’t bother masking the hardness in his eyes. 

The man outside the door stares back, registering for a second his surprise that someone answered. He’s wearing a nondescript suit and fancy black shoes – the kind that make sure you can’t blend in no matter where you go because they look _too_ ordinary. He has blond hair and brown eyes, and he’s average height, not quite as _tall_ as Dean - but thicker. The suit hides the muscles well, but Dean knows the guy is in shape. 

This guy is a pro, he can tell. CDC, maybe. Or even FBI. Plain clothes, no visible badge, but he carries himself like a cop. It’s not that Dean doesn’t like cops. Hell, if he weren’t a hunter, he’d probably be one. But anyone that comes after his family is an enemy, and there are no exceptions to that rule. Not if you’re a Winchester. 

Agent Guy smiles this great fake smile that reminds Dean of Law and Order. He idly wonders if they take a class for that shit. “Hello. I’m looking for Mr. Winchester, have you seen him?” 

It’s not really a question; it’s more of a trap. This guy knows Dad’s been here. He’s got his real name, and that means he knows about Sammy, too. Dean’s been off the map for a while, but he doesn’t think it’s long enough to have escaped notice. It might be safer to play it nice, feign ignorance and be a good boy. 

But that’s really not Dean’s style.

“Who the hell are you?” He asks. Smooth, no hard tone, no rough edges. Just steady, message clear as a bell. _Get off my property_. 

“Detective Hargrove,” said Agent Guy, brandishing his badge. “I’ve received a complaint regarding Mr. Winchester, I’d like to ask him a few questions.” 

_Awesome_.

“Sorry Detective, but my Dad’s not home right now. You got a business card or something?” 

Hargrove’s fake smile vanishes. To Dean’s surprise, it’s replaced by something more genuine – and something even more hated. 

Pity.

“Listen son, your Dad’s been doing some things with some really bad people. Now, I want to help you and your family – but you’re going to have to trust me. Do you think you can do that?” He edges closer, trying to see around Dean and into the living room of the efficiency apartment. 

Dean shifts to block him, easy song and dance. _No chance, buddy, thanks for playing._ The sparse furniture and lack of clutter to any other person would reek of destitution. To a cop, it would tell an entirely different tale; one too close to the truth for comfort. Dean doesn’t even think of chancing it. 

“Listen, I get you’re just doin’ your job. Really.” He flashes his most sincerely innocent smile, hopes it does the trick. _Damnnit, where’s Sammy when you need him._ “But my Dad is fine. He’s at work. I don’t know what you think he did, but you got the wrong guy. “ 

Hargrove glances over his shoulder. Across the street, their little non-confrontation is starting to attract attention. The bumbling old cat lady is peering their direction, no doubt mumbling nonsense about the hoodlums that live in that ratty apartment. Dean resists the impulse to roll his eyes. Every beat of his heart roars in his ears; Dad could be bleeding out and there just isn’t _time_ for this. 

“Look son, I’ll make this simple for you. My division is looking for your Dad. Earlier today he was involved in a possible homicide. Your brother has gone missing from his school.” Hargrove pauses at the revelation like he thinks Dean will look guilty. He looks almost disappointed. “Now, I think he’s here. You can either let me in, or I can take you down to my office for a while. What’ll it be.”

It’s not a question, but this time instead of a trap it’s a demand. Dean’s gaze goes to flint. “No.”

“No?”

“That’s right. No.” 

Dean is playing with fire. Hargrove settles himself, bracing for whatever is coming next. His voice loses all of its fake sympathy. It’s whisper-cold when he says, “You always this much of a smartass, son?”

Dean grins, shows his dimples. He knows they hate that. “Oh, believe me – it’s harder than it looks.” It’s been five minutes by Dean’s count. 

And he knows, he knows because he’s been through this before, that if they get to Dad, then they’ll get to Sammy. Dean’s only 17, he’s not old enough to take him, and breaking that kid out of foster care is an aggravation he’d rather never have to live through again. Dad and Dean aren’t exactly saints, but Sammy – no kid – deserves to live in a place like that. 

As Hargrove opens his mouth to respond, Dean’s subconscious recon sweep completes itself. He registers three things: the old lady is back inside her house, leaving the street empty, there is no car parked next to the Impala, or anywhere else in their immediate vicinity that he can see, and Hargrove doesn’t seem to be packing. 

Dean heaves a sigh and pushes the door open wide, stepping back from the entryway. “You know what? You’re right. I got nothing to hide – go ahead, have a look around.” His lips twitch as Hargrove walks in. 

Dean closes the door behind them and follows towards the bedroom. Hargrove seems eager, anxious. He casts glances back at Dean, but Dean keeps his distance, offers no protest as he tours the area. Hargrove finally reaches the bedroom door. His fingers hesitate for just an instant on the handle before turning it, and the door swings open with a _click_. 

Sam’s frightened gaze is the last thing he sees.

~*~

“Yeah, but Dean, how’d you _know_?” Sam hasn’t shut up since they got in the car, his horror fading rapidly to disbelief and then to admiration and back before they even hit the interstate. 

Dad’s smiling softly in the back seat. He’s still too pale, and there are wrinkles of pain around his eyes, but when he looks at Dean via the rearview, his stare glows with pride. They swap a look that, close as Dean can tell, means “ _good job/don’t mention it/no really, I’ve been tracking that ‘shifter for a while now and I’m proud of you/ it’s no big deal, just rest you idiot”_ before Dean turns his attention to his vibrant little brother. Sam wants details, information, tips on how to be a better hunter, and Dean knows it.

Dean reaches across the seat to ruffle Sam’s unruly early-teen hair, and smiles. 

“How’d I know? ’Cos I’m awesome.”


End file.
